Narcissus Poeticus -- GiftFic
by ChequeRoot
Summary: Montgomery Burns has come to accept the presence of Waylon's son, Ryan, at Burns Manor. Ryan, however, is about to learn that what he knows of his family barely scratches the surface. He is not the first generation of Smithers to live at the manor, or even the second. Decades ago, Waylon Sr. once called the manor home, and his legacy remains. [Cover art (c) Gav-Imp: "As I Planned"]
1. Chapter 1

**Standard Disclaimer.** I do not own the Simpsons, C. M. Burns, Waylon Smithers Sr, or any other characters from the Simpsons Universe This is a non-profit piece of fan fiction.

Ryan Smithers is (c) Gav-Imp of DeviantArt, and used with permission. Cover art is (c) Gav-Imp, and used technically without permission, though hopefully she doesn't mind.

* * *

Ryan Smithers ate slowly, seated in the middle of an overly long dining table. At the foot of the table sat his father, Waylon Smithers. Opposite Waylon, at the head of the table, sat the aged patriarch of the household: Montgomery Burns.

Ryan found himself settling into the routine of Burns Manor, though summer had ended all too soon. As autumn rolled around, he found both his father and Burns pressuring him to make use of his time in more productive means. The topic of college was one that kept getting brought up, much to his chagrin.

"You could take some courses as Springfield Community College," Waylon suggested pleasantly. Ryan could easily catch the false innocence in his father's voice.

Here we go, Ryan sighed inwardly.

Burns had looked up from his newspaper and narrowed his eyes. "Community college? As if. If your son's to be living here full time, I expect a higher level of achievement than that."

("Our son," Waylon muttered under his breath.)

"Eh?" Burns asked, leaning forward, bearing his teeth. "Have something to say, Smithers?"

Waylon coughed and folded his napkin in his lap. "Our son, Monty. You heard me quite clearly the first time."

Ryan tried to sink lower in his seat. Perhaps if they forgot he was there he'd be able to make a quick exit before the squabbling began in earnest. He wondered if he could simply slide under the table.

Burns jabbed his fork in the direction of Waylon. "I'll not have any member of this house taking substandard courses taught by a murder of prosaic imbeciles."

"I went to Springfield Community College," Waylon snapped back.

"Yes, well, I suppose there is always the rare exception to any rule."

Ryan was mostly out of his seat, halfway to the floor. Just a little further…

"You there! Ryan!" Burns barked, turning his attention to Ryan. "How many sixes are in the word 'Yale'?"

Ryan straightened himself up. "You don't spell 'Yale' with a six," he replied, brow furrowing in confusion.

Burns sat back, as if that somehow settled things. "See, Smithers, he's already smarter than your other son."

Waylon shook his head, perplexed. "What other son?"

Burns tented his fingers and gave Waylon a calculating smile. "Why, Larry of course. If we are to be splitting hairs, or heirs as the case may be, you now lay equal claim to that cheerfully benignant buffoon and his rambunctious get."

Ryan felt like he was watching a tennis match. His gaze flicked from one end of the table to the other, and back again. "Larry spelled 'Yale' with a six?" He asked. No one noticed.

"So, Smithers," Burns continued, "congratulations. A father of two at your age. You must be so proud."

Waylon gave a snort. "You're parenting a teenager."

"Bah, how hard can that be? This one seems quite self-reliant."

"This one's still right here," Ryan interjected. Again, his words fell on deaf ears. He folded his arms across his chest and stuck out his lip in a definitive pout.

Waylon apparently noticed Ryan's frustration. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"You're doing it again. Talking about me like I'm not here. I'm not a child, and I'm not deaf either. I can hear you."

Burns and Waylon exchanged looks.

Ryan caught Burns' slight shrug.

Waylon got up and moved the middle of the table. He sat down across from a sulky Ryan. "Remember what I said, this is an adjustment for all of us. We've gone from a family of… well, none… to a family of four in a relatively short time. Even though Larry doesn't live here, your brother's still a part of this family."

"Brother," Ryan said, mulling the word over on his tongue. The idea was new and intriguing. "I have a brother."

"Of course, what else would Larry be?"

Ryan met his father's eyes. "I never thought of it that way before."

From the far end of the table came a loud cough. "Larry's your brother, boy. You best accept it."

Ryan looked down towards Burns. "Accept it? I'm happy about it! I like Larry. Maybe not his jokes, but I like him."

Burns nodded. "Good. You can play host when next he and his get are in town."

"His 'get?'"

"Children. Yes."

"He has kids?" Had Larry mentioned that in Chicago? If so, Ryan had forgotten.

"Patently," Burns replied. There was a pause. Burns and Waylon exchanged a furtive look before Burns spoke again. "There are two to speak of. A son and a daughter. The lad's the older of the two, as I recall."

Ryan's face broke into a smile as realization dawned. "I'm an uncle!"

"Naturally. That is what they call it when one's brother has offspring."

Ryan beamed. "That's pretty awesome, actually."

"How so?"

Ryan jabbed a thumb towards Waylon. "In a few short weeks I went from having no one to having a father and a brother, and now I find out I'm an uncle too."

Burns regarded Ryan thoughtfully. "And to what relation do you regard me?"

Ryan rubbed his fingers over his forehead, massaging a spot just above his eyebrows. "My dad's husband, I suppose."

Burns straightened in his chair, expression darkening slightly.

"Truly?" Burns asked softly. "That's it then? I welcome you into my home, feed you, clothe you, and yet I am nothing more than a second to you? Your father's husband, not an equal?" Burns stroked his chin thoughtfully.

Waylon put an arm protectively around Ryan's shoulder. The young man didn't shrug it off. "Easy, Monty," Waylon chided.

"No, no," Burns replied, twirling a hand. "The boy's quite right. What am I to him?" He gestured to Ryan. "I've not exactly made myself approachable or open to you; and don't think that will change. It is what I am, and I've been this way far too long to change. But understand this as well, Ryan. You are the son of my beloved Waylon there. Such is the nature of this connubial bond. All he possesses belongs to me. That means I too must yield my own. Mine is his, his is mine; and that includes you.

Burns stood up, and pushed his chair against the table. He held onto the back and leaned forward. "Regardless of what you think of me, boy, you are my heir. One of two; perhaps not equal in caliber, but still equal in role. I'll not tolerate it to have you think anything less of yourself."

Burns had strolled around the long table, and come to stand across from Waylon and Ryan. He clasped his hands regally behind his back. "You have a proud and distinguished bloodline, on both the side of your sire, and under the mantle of my name. The look in your eye, and the confidence of your bearing. You are _mine_ , and I expect you to live up to such standards."

With that, Burns turned on his heel and strode out of the dining hall.

Ryan watched him go. "What was that about?"

Waylon squeezed Ryan's shoulder. "He's a hard man to get to know. But he's fond of you. He's claimed you." Waylon gave a dry laugh. "I waited over twenty years for that honor."

Ryan shrugged himself free of his father's encircling arm. "I'm not something he can own."

Waylon held up his hands in protest. "I don't mean it that way, and neither does he. I mean you're family, Ryan. He cares about you, in his own reserved way, and that's something you should take to heart."

"Why?"

"Because as emotionally detached as he seems, when he cares about someone he means it."

Ryan poked at the remains of his cooling breakfast. "Clearly when he doesn't have a sword he makes do with his words to keep people at a safe distance."

Waylon nodded. "Exactly. And that's why I'm trying to tell you this, Ryan. I don't want you to think he doesn't. Would it kill you to think of him as your father?"

Ryan slid his chair back and stood up. "To be honest, Dad, it's been hard enough getting to know one father. Don't push me on this, okay. You both talk, and talk and talk. What to do about me, what do for me… I get that you both care, but it can be too much. How about you both let me do me, and I'll ask for your help, either of you, when I need it, okay?"

"Ryan, wait!"

Ryan was halfway to the door. "I get that we're a family. I get it and I'm happy about it. But you can't force things. I've got you pushing us all together, I've got him being, well, him! And in the meantime, you guys both forget to ask me what I want."

Waylon was on his feet, following Ryan. "Please, come back. What do you want?"

"Time. Okay? And to get to know you and Monty; and Larry. I just learned the other day that my grandfather designed the nuclear plant. That's something neither of you told me. I want to know about him too. I've got a whole lot of family I never knew about, and it's don't get me wrong because I think it's great, but I just need time. You've said it yourself, you've had over twenty years to get comfortable with all this. I haven't. Give me time, Dad, okay?"

With that, Ryan hurried out of the dining room, darted up the stairs to his own bedroom at the end of the hall. He tossed himself down on his bed and dragged his well-worn copy of _The Glass Menagerie_ out from under his pillow.

Ryan flipped the book open and buried his nose in the pages. It didn't so much mater where he started, he knew the entire play by heart. On the inside cover, under the main title the phrase _Nobody, even the rain, has such small hands,_ was printed in delicate letters.

Tennessee Williams was himself well-read. That single line was a quote from E. E. Cummings, or e e cummings, if one were to think of it that way.

Ryan rolled on his back and held the book above him, reading. Finding solace in the familiar words.

* * *

Ryan had hardly made it more than a few pages in when there came a knock at his door. Sighing dramatically, he sat up.

"What?" he called out.

"Can I come in?" his father's voice replied through the closed door.

"I'm changing," Ryan yelled back. A white lie, but he didn't feel like getting drawn into a long conversation at the moment.

"Okay. Monty and I are heading to work. Think about what we said, about college. He doesn't want you loafing about the house indefinitely, and I agree. If you're not going to college, you need to get a job."

Ryan groaned loudly.

Waylon heard it. "You're an adult, we expect you to act like one. College or work, those are your choices, Ryan."

Ryan tossed the book down on the bed, annoyed. "Fine, fine. I'll think it over, okay?"

"Fair enough," replied Waylon.

Ryan listened as his father turned, heard Waylon's footsteps vanish down the hall.

Work, or college… or work. Hadn't he been through enough already? Didn't he deserve a year off or something? At least a break. A week after they'd all gotten back to Springfield after a trip to Santa Monica, California and his parents had started in with the old "go to college, get a job" spiel.

Parents… did he really just think of Monty and Waylon as his parents?

Ryan shook his head as if to clear it and ran a hand through his black hair. No, he didn't mean it that way. Those two were his dad, and his dad's husband. They weren't his parents… right?

Ryan heard the sound of a car leaving the garage, and coasting down the drive to the front gates. He listened as it turned onto Mammon Drive, and accelerated towards the plant. The same routine every day. His dad and Monty left for work around eight thirty in the morning. They wouldn't be home till sometime after five.

Ordinarily, Ryan would take his motorcycle and head into Springfield proper. He'd go to the mall, or simply cruise around familiarizing himself with the land. He never had a set destination in mind, but it felt good to get out of the house. Once his parents left (there was that word again, damn! They were not his parents!) the mansion seemed painfully empty.

A quick glance out the window dispelled any notion of a day out. The sky was dark, clouds swollen and pregnant with the threat of storms. Far better to stay in, do a bit of 'snooping,' as he called it.

Though Ryan had explored Burns Manor, he felt he'd barely scratched the surface of the place. It seemed every time he set foot outside his room he found some new hall, or room, or something he'd never seen before.

Yesterday, he discovered the home theatre. He spent the day eating popcorn and watching horror movies on a screen almost large enough to be a cinema. Even in the theatre, there had been a recessed shelf with several rows of books on famous actors, actresses, the art of film…

That was one thing that stood out in Ryan's eyes: the books. Burns had a fondness for the written word, apparently. In addition to the various shelves and nooks around the manor, the house boasted a huge library with a domed ceiling and a floor that had been polished to a mirror shine. Burns had explained, with more than a little pride, that every book had been carefully placed according to its subject matter.

 _Here, natural history_ , Burns had explained gesturing grandly. _There, arts and humanities. Look there: poets of the ages. Real poetry, mind you. Oh, you might find some freeform dross in there from time to time, but I daresay the bulk of the matter is carefully metered, as it ought be._

Freeform dross. What a word choice. Could Monty ever say anything simply? It appeared not.

Ryan glanced at _The Glass Menagerie_ , sitting on his down comforter. He quickly gathered the book, and slid it back under his pillow. It was one of the last things he had to remind him of his mother. She'd given it to him years ago, when he was still a child.

Ryan sat up and slid his feet into the pair of house loafers he kept by his bed. Ordinarily, Ryan preferred to walk around in socks, but he'd quickly learned that trying to navigate the smooth floors of Burns Manor in socks was a dangerous and slippery prospect. Loafers were the safer choice.


	2. Chapter 2

Ryan let himself into the Library, and walked quietly through the reading room. His slippered feet hardly made a sound on the polished stone. High, arched windows graced the side wall, and it was by these that the section on poetry could be found.

Ryan didn't bother with the card catalog. He walked directly over, and strolled along the shelves, tracing the innumerable bookspines with a finger. He wasn't sure exactly what he was looking for, but he'd know it when he found it.

There! Nestled in the 811s with the rest of the poetry, a book that caught his fancy. E. E. Cummings (or e e cummings, if one might prefer). Two books by that poet, actually. One listed as selected works, the other a heavier volume with gilded page edges announced itself to be the complete works.

Ryan naturally opted for the comprehensive volume.

He tugged it free from its neighbors, and meandered over to a high-backed chair by the window. The sky was a haphazard patchwork, dark clouds interspaced with gaps of blue sky. The typical, temperamental weather of autumn.

Ryan sat down in the chair, put his feet up, and opened to the title page.

Just inside the coverer was a note, hand-written. Curious, Ryan paused.

 _Monty, my Beloved,_

 _Every time I read this poem I think of you. I know e e cummings is not your cup of tea, but each time I read his words, my heart swells. For you see my dear, it's not enough that I carry my own heart beneath my ribs, under layers of hopes, dreams, and fears. Somewhere along the line, I realized I carry yours with me as well. Broad-chested, or narrow form, it seems there is always enough room for two hearts to beat as one. Whenever we are forced apart by whatever fate may bring, read these poems, think of me; and know that I am dreaming of you._

 _Forever as Always,_

 _Yours._

So old Burns had a lover once upon a time, Ryan chuckled dryly. The words were poetic without being sappy. He wondered vaguely what happened to the woman. In truth was hardly surprising Burns had taken someone at least once in his life, Burns did have a son after all.

Ryan turned the page to the table of contents. Given the crispness of the spine, Ryan wondered if Burns had ever even looked in this book. Was it possible he missed the writer's tender note? On the content page, in the same handwriting, two poems were underlined. For you, my most darling one, the unknown writer said. Ryan flipped to the first marked page.

 _i carry your heart(i carry it in_

 _my heart)I am never without it(anywhere_

 _I go you go,my dear; and whatever is done_

 _by only me is your doing,my darling_

 _i fear_

 _no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want_

 _no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)_

 _and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant_

 _and whatever a sun will always sing is you_

 _here is the deepest secret nobody knows_

 _(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud_

 _and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows_

 _higher than a soul can hope or mind can hide)_

 _and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart_

 _i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)_

 _._

Ryan read the poem twice, to make sure he hadn't missed anything. Sweet, but inconsequential. Aside from an odd sense of familiarity in his chest, nothing stood out to him. Still, it gave him a bit more insight into Burns' past. He flipped rapidly to the second marked page.

 _in time of daffodils (who know_

 _the goal of living is to grow)_

 _forgetting why, remember how_

 _in time of lilacs who proclaim_

 _the aim of waking is to dream,_

 _remember so (forgetting seem)_

 _in time of roses (who amaze_

 _our now and there with paradise)_

 _forgetting if, remember yes_

 _in time of all sweet things beyond_

 _whatever mind may comprehend,_

 _remember seek (forgetting find)_

 _and in a mystery to be_

 _(when time from time set us free)_

 _forgetting me, remember me._

In the same, precise handwriting was a second note below the poem: _Come what may, we'll always have the daffodils. WJS. 1952._

Further below that, in a writing of a different hand: _As promised. It is in the vase of daffodils. Johan._ There was no date behind that named note.

"'It,'" Ryan mused aloud. Daffodils? He seemed to remember seeing a vase of dried daffodils, but where? And why did he even care? Ryan wasn't sure, but something about this intrigued him. It felt like one of the mystery books he'd read in his youth. Who was Johan? What was in the vase? Ryan closed the book and ran his hands through his hair.

"Think," he muttered to himself as he dug his nails across his scalp.

In his mind's eye, he could clearly see a vase of dried daffodils. It had been sitting somewhere in the manor.

On a mantle!

It had been on the mantle next to the anniversary clock. That clock was upstairs, in his father's room. Not that his father hardly ever slept in his room, Ryan knew. Most nights his father and Monty shared the master suite. Ryan didn't want to think about their arrangement in more detail than that.

Stuffing the book in the front pouch of his hoodie, Ryan hastily darted up the several flights of stairs to the residential wing. He skidded to a halt outside his father's room, and glanced about nervously. As expected, the hall was empty.

Ryan placed his hand on the doorknob, and turned it gently.

The door swung open easily.

Despite the fact he knew his father was at work, Ryan felt a pounding in his chest. All three of them, respected each other's privacy. Neither Monty nor his father would ever come sneaking into his room. Ryan felt oddly guilty as he pushed to door the rest of the way open, and stepped into the spacious chamber that his father rarely used.

He glanced hopefully towards the mantle, and his heart sank. The clock was there, just as he'd remembered, but the daffodils were gone.

"Maybe they got thrown out," he muttered sadly, pulling the door shut behind him.

Ryan slouched to the stairs and sat down at the top step.

It had all seemed like such a promising mystery, at the very least an entertaining way to pass a rainy day. Now, it felt over before it had even truly begun.

Ryan slapped his hands against his thighs. Something didn't feel right. He could've sworn he'd seen a vase of dried daffodils recently. It wasn't someplace he usually went. He hadn't seen them well. Downstairs, his subconscious whispered, making itself known. That study at the end of the hall…

Ryan snapped his fingers. "Yes!"

Burns' private study, that room he kept dark, at the end of the long gallery. It was his inner sanctum, as he called it. A place where Waylon was hardly welcomed in, and a room Ryan had only even seen from the open hall door.

There had been a vase of flowers on the mantle there! Nestled between a crystal flask of some expensive cognac, and Burns' old hunting horn.

Ryan flew down the stairs, taking the steps two at a time, and would've fallen on the landing were it not for his firm grip on the handrail. He hauled himself up, and used his momentum to slingshot himself 'round the corner. There, the ground floor. The grand hallway, the main gallery, the double doors to Burns' study at the end.

He skidded to a halt on the carpet, and without hesitation flung the door open.

The room beyond was dark, save for a few glowing embers in the fireplace.

Out of the inky blackness came a low growl.

Two eyes reflected the dim light, flickering amber. With snarl, a doberman pinscher detached itself from the shadows, and hurled itself towards him.

"Down, Winston," Ryan shouted. The dog didn't listen, and continued its charge.

Ryan pulled the door shut with all his might as the Doberman hurled itself, growling and barking, against the frame. Ryan ran a hand over his chest, gasping for air. He backed up several yards, then sank down against the wall. However brief his view into the room had been, Ryan had seen a dried bouquet of yellow flowers on the mantle.

* * *

Ryan stood in the bathroom, combing the medicine cabinet for a bottle of small, pink pills. Winston evidently had been left behind to guard the room, and whatever rapport Ryan might've had with Burns' hounds was clearly secondary to a command from their master.

Near the back, he found what he was looking for. Benadryl, the bottle said. He opened it and shook three pills into his hand. According to the internet, and confirmed by a phone call to their veterinarian, three 25mg pills ought be sufficient for a seventy-five pound doberman pinscher's "allergies."

 _Yeah_ , Ryan thought as he made his way to the kitchen and slipped the pills into several pieces of hotdog. _Allergies_.

Hotdogs in hand, he paused outside Burns' study. Carefully, he opened the door. "Hey Winston," he crooned. "I've got a treat for you."

The only answer was a deep growl. Winston stood, ears pinned back, and bared his teeth.

"There's a good boy," Ryan soothed, moving slow. Carefully, he tossed the bit of hotdog in the general direction of Winston.

The animal regarded him suspiciously, eyes flicking between the unexpected treats, and the unwanted intruder. After several seconds of hesitation that seemed like an eternity to Ryan, the dog slowly approached the bait. A cautious sniff, another wary glance towards Ryan.

 _Come on!_ Ryan thought frantically.

Winston poked one of the pieces with a paw.

 _No,_ Ryan moaned silently. _Just eat the damn thing!_

As if on cue, Winston lowered his head. He snatched the bit of hotdog in his jaws, and swallowed it without chewing. The second and third piece were likewise consumed. Winston looked around hopefully. Finding no more treats, he returned his attention to Ryan.

Ryan quickly shut the door again.

It would take about twenty minutes for the pills to take effect.

Ryan curled up at the far end of the hall in view of one of Burns' large grandfather clocks, and waited. It was the longest twenty minutes of Ryan's life.

After what seemed like hours, he made his way back to Burns' study, and slowly opened the door a crack. Winston was lying on the hearth by the embers, perfectly still. His ears didn't even twitch as Ryan stepped into the room

 _Shit_ , Ryan thought, staring at the dog's glossy chest with apprehension. _I killed him!_

As if on cue, Winston inhaled deeply, and exhaled with a loud, gurgling snore.

Ryan clasped a hand to his own chest. _Oh, thank god._

He crossed quickly and silently towards the mantle and the flowers, his slippered feet hardly making a sound on the deep carpet. He was almost in reach of the vase when he was struck be a terrible realization:

The dog was blocking his path.

Winston lay in an undignified sprawl across the flagstone hearth, his legs stretched out. From where he stood, Ryan could reach the mantle easily, but the most he could do to the vase was brush it with his fingertips.

Ryan uttered a profanity in his head, and took a step back. The only way he could possibly reach the vase would be if he stepped between the dog's outstretched limbs. How deeply did Benadryl make a dog sleep anyhow? Was Winston out like a light, or just cat-napping.

Ryan rubbed his hands together. His palms were starting to sweat. He slid his foot forward, right between the doberman's front paws.

Still he couldn't quite get a solid grip on the vase.

As his fingertips flicked across the mouth of the vase, and he inched it ever closer to the edge, Ryan wondered if this was truly the best approach. He was precariously balanced, practically straddling Winston. The vase rocked slightly. A few more millimeters and he'd have it…

Winston groaned slightly, and shifted.

Ryan jumped, jerking his hands back. It was an involuntary reaction; he hardly had time to think.

His free hand caught the rim of the vase, flinging it unceremoniously across the room.

Time seemed to slow down.

"Oh, hell," Ryan muttered as he took an awkward step backwards. He watched as the vase sailed over his head in a lazy arc towards the door. He had time to realize his foot was now on Winston's foot, and the Doberman was suddenly very much awake. Ryan flailed as he fell, hands colliding with a small table next to Burns' wing chair. The table fell forward, onto Winston.

The dog kicked frantically, a knot of furry and wooden legs entangled with one another.

The vase hit the carpet and shattered, spraying chunks of fine china across the floor.

The dried daffodils scattered across the floor, crumbling as they went.

Ryan's backside hit to floor. He was barely able to break his fall with his arms before he landed. In the middle of it, he noticed a small glass cylinder rolling away from the wreckage of the flowers and vase. He scuttled backwards, making a grab for it.

Winston had found his feet. The dog turned, attention focusing on Ryan.

Ryan grabbed the wool blanket off Burns' chair, and flung it over the dog.

It didn't give him much time, but it provided the necessary seconds needed to get safely out of the study.

He slammed the door, and collapsed in the hall, lying on his back, vial clutched firmly in his hand.

Ryan's heart threatened to explode out of his chest. In the back of his mind he knew that he should be worried about what would happen when Burns came home and found his study in complete disarray. "Maybe he'll just blame the dog," Ryan said to himself, as optimistically as he could. He rolled onto his stomach and examined his prize.

It was a small glass tube, not unlike a laboratory vial, about three inches long, and just under an inch in diameter. The top was sealed with a cork. Inside, Ryan could clearly see a tightly coiled piece of paper, well-yellowed with age. He held the vial in one hand, and tried prying the plug free with his other. When that didn't work, he resorted to using his teeth.

With a grunt and sigh, he slowly worked the obstinate cork free. He spat it out, and shook the roll of paper into his hand.

Not only was it yellow, but it was quite brittle. He carefully unrolled it onto the hallway floor.

Ryan had been expecting a note, a secret message, some grand reveal. In that, he was disappointed. There were three lines of text. Private safe. Servant's pantry. 08913. - Johan.

Who the hell was Johan anyhow?

Ryan memorized the numbers, then slipped the paper back in its vial and tucked everything into his hoodie pouch. Yes, the shattered vase and flowers in disarray, if anyone asked, it must've been the dog.


	3. Chapter 3

Ryan Smithers knew the manor to a degree, but his knowledge extended to the posh upper levels. Beneath the entry level were the bowels of the manor, the inner workings. The servants' quarters were located lower level, as were the concealed loading docks, Burns' museum-like garage, and the various cellars.

Ryan had never been in the lower levels except for the garage. He knew it shared an access route with the loading docks, so by that logic the servants' quarters and kitchen couldn't be far off. It made sense to him at least, that everything would be close by.

He took the stairs down from the main hall, the board steps narrowing at the second landing, and wood paneled walls giving way to wainscot. The garage would be up ahead, beyond the lower gallery, but Ryan veered down a side corridor, less decorative than the rest.

In Ryan's analytical brain, thinking in three dimensions came easily to him. He was currently under the eastern portion of the manor, though not directly below the residential wing. The corridor he followed was more of a utility passage.

From time to time, other passages branched off. There were several closed doors along the hall, the rabbit warren of the servants' quarters. Each had unit number and a simple transom window above that could be opened for ventilation.

Burns had always boasted he kept a full complement of house staff, but even Ryan hardly saw them. Following Burns' explicit instructions, they kept their presence discrete to the point of invisibility. Ryan would come back to find his room had been cleaned, his bed turned down as if by magic. Sometimes, Ryan mused, it was easy to forget there were actual people doing all this work.

Ahead, behind a closed door, Ryan could hear noise, the clatter of a plate on a counter. Through the smoky glass panes in the door, Ryan could make out two or three figures seated around a comfortable table. He heard them chatting amiably, though he couldn't quite make out words.

Without hesitation, he pushed the door open.

Everyone at the table froze.

Three sets of eyes immediately locked onto Ryan, their owners' expressions nervous. One of the men was clearly a gardener or groundskeeper. His hands were rough, and permanently stained by the soil. The second was a woman probably in her thirties. She wore slacks and the stripped smock of a housekeeper. The third was practically a youth himself: a tapered face with deep-set, worried eyes, and blond hair that came down around his ears. He wore a red tie and silver vest. His black suitcoat had been carefully hung over the back of his chair.

Ryan felt suddenly and deeply self-conscious, and resisted the urge to turn and run. He rubbed his arms and stepped into the kitchen, pulling the door shut behind him.

The room was quaint, homey. It reminded him of the kitchen back at the apartment he and his mother had shared in Philadelphia. The floor was black and white checkered tiles. A butcher-block doubled as a counter along one wall between the stove and refrigerator. A door opened to the yards beyond, and a series of windows let in what natural light could be found on this autumn day. Even with the cloudy skies, the room seemed light and welcoming.

Ryan found himself hit with a sudden wave of nostalgia.

The young man, not much older than Ryan was the first two speak. "Uh, Master Smithers," he began hesitantly, his voice rather accented, "what, uh… what brings you this way, sir?"

Being addressed as "sir" and "master" were off-putting enough to Ryan. When they came from someone who could've been his peer, it only heightened the awkwardness he felt.

"I was looking for…" Ryan began, then paused. How did he explain himself? He shuffled his feet. "Is there a pantry here?"

The youth nodded. "Of course, sir. But there is much better fare in the main kitchens above. Please, Master Smithers, if its food Sir wants, I would be happy to have Chef prepare a meal." He rose, beckoning Ryan follow him.

"No, no." Ryan shook his head. "I mean here. And I'm not looking for food. I'm… looking for something else." Ryan swallowed uncomfortably. "I don't suppose there's anyone by the name of Johan here?"

The youth looked back to his companions, who shook their heads.

"No one by that name on the household staff, Master. Nor on the grounds. Perhaps the young Master is mistaken?"

Ryan folded his arms across his chest. "No. I'm not mistaken. According to Johan there's a safe in the pantry, and I need to get something out of it."

The young man's eyes flickered anxiously. He retrieved a walkie-talkie from his vest pocket. "Elise?"

A voice cracked back. "Yes, Ian?"

"Could you come down to the lower kitchens, please?"

"I'm in the middle of laundry."

"Please. The laundry can wait, this is a rather urgent matter."

"I'll be there in a moment."

Ian stuck the walkie-talkie back in his pocket and gestured to an empty seat at the table. "Would the young Master please sit? Might I offer you a refreshment from our meager stores?"

Ryan found Ian's obsequious manner rather over the top. In his eyes, they couldn't be more than a two, maybe three years apart. To have someone his own age, practically a kid, bowing and fawning was all too much. Ryan didn't move towards the table, didn't sit.

"Ian, right? Jeeze, you can lay off the servant gig. I'm not here to be all 'master of the house,' or whatever," Ryan said, holding up his hands. "I'm just here to try and find something, and then I'll be out of your way, okay?"

Ian bowed, yet again. "If the young Master changes his mind, sir…" He dipped his head and took a step to the side, folding his hands behind his back. He straightened his back, took a 'thousand-yard stare' and stood still as a statue.

The kitchen door opened, and a woman came bustling in. Ryan recognized her immediately. When Ryan arrived unannounced at Burns Manor so many weeks before, he and his father had taken dinner on the veranda out back, Elise had served them. She had a good-natured face, and twinkling eyes. That day her hair had been down, curled about her neck. Today, she wore it up under a net. It made no difference to Ryan. He smiled as soon as he saw her.

She froze for a second when she saw him, caught momentarily off-guard. She tapped her throat with a hand before regaining composure.

"Ryan Smithers, sir; what brings you down this way?" She glanced around the room. "I'll say you're making everyone feel nervous with your presence."

Ryan looked away, chastised.

"I was just looking for something. I got this note from Johan, and it says something about a safe in the pantry down here."

Elise blinked in surprise. "Well there's a name I haven't heard in years. How did you come across it?" She put a hand on her hip.

Ryan hung his head. "A bit of a scavenger hunt, I guess." It was close enough to the truth.

"Well, this is all very unprecedented," Elise remarked, wringing her hands in her apron. Her tone was that of almost maternal disapproval.

Ryan's face dropped further. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.

Ian snapped out of his frozen pose, and in a single swift motion was at Elise's side. He took her by the elbow and leaned in, lips mere inches from her ear. "Elise," he hissed. "I'll not have you speak this way to a principal."

Elise's expression hardened for a moment. She took a step back. "Selkirk," she replied in a hushed voice, "I am well aware of who our principal is. You requested my assistance, let me provide it."

Ian Selkirk released her elbow. He made a go-on gesture with his hand.

Elise returned her attention to Ryan. She gestured to the table. "Please, sit."

Ryan sat.

Elise retrieved clean glass and a spoon from the counter. She paused at the fridge, back to Ryan. A moment later she returned the table, a glass of chocolate milk in hand.

Ryan wrapped both hands around it and smiled. "You remembered!"

Elise smiled. "It's my job. Now, Ryan, you were asking about Johan?"

Ryan nodded.

"Back in the forties, possibly even earlier, Mister Burns had himself a houseman by that name. I wasn't here back then, I met the fellow shortly before he retired, back in the seventies. Johan was the major domestic of that era, a title that passed through several hands - including, informally, your father – and most recently, to Ian Selkirk. Ian joined the staff shortly after your father moved in. Your father's role in the household changed, and new staff was taken onboard accordingly."

Elise's face was completely neutral as she spoke, revealing nothing more than she chose to show.

Ryan sipped his milk.

"Johan was head-of-house; and one of the few staff whose presence was requested, possibly even expected, by our principal. He served as bodyguard, chauffer, and butler to Mister Burns, and Mister Smithers."

Ryan paused. "Wait, my father?"

Elise shook her head.

"No. Your grandfather." She looked around the room at the other staff before continuing. "People talk, but discretion is paramount. I know little more than what I've told you. It's public knowledge, albeit rarely spoken, that your grandfather and Mister Burns worked together as business partners during the nuclear boom of the fifties. They built the nuclear plant, and that changed the future of Springfield. That's truly all I know. If there is a safe in the pantry, I'm not aware of it, and I've been here longer than anyone else on staff."

Ryan glanced at Ian and the other faces around the table. They indicated yes, Elise spoke true.

"So that's it then," Ryan said, reaching a hand into his pocket and curling his fingers around the vial. "A dead end."

Elise raised her eyebrows. "Ryan, I said I didn't know about it. That doesn't mean it doesn't exist. If going through the pantry would set your mind at ease, far be it from me to stop you." She gestured to a door off to the side.

Ryan thanked her, and rose. Ignoring the self-conscious feelings in his stomach, he crossed the tile floor and stepped into the modest pantry beyond. It was a small room, shelves of dry food, canned goods and utensils lined one wall. The other wall was dedicated to hanging cookware. Ryan ran his hands along the walls, tapping as he went.

He moved the shelved goods the counter, examined the spaces behind. Again, nothing.

Beneath the counter was a row of cupboards. Ryan opened them out, removing the contents as he went. He was about to give up when something caught his eye. In the far corner, at the bottom of the cupboard, one of the floor planks was inconsistent with the others. Nothing quite as distinct as a different color, but the hue and texture was ever so slightly off.

Ryan crouched forward on his hands and knees, shoulders almost completely inside the cupboard, his own body blocking the light. He groped about, squinting in the shadows. His hands came to rest on the plank, and it shifted slightly, as if meant to be removed. There was no place for his fingers to grab an edge.

Without hesitation, Ryan pulled himself back and grabbed a knife off the counter. He leaned in once again, carefully wedging the knife tip between the edges of wood.

A bit of wiggling, careful prying, and there! He lifted the plank up and pulled it out, exposing a hole below.

"Does anyone have a flashlight?" he called out, reaching behind him.

The metal cylinder of a Maglite plunked into his outstretched hand. "Thanks!"

The blue-white beam was almost blinding inside the tiny space. Ryan shifted his body, half-crawling, half lying on his side. He tucked the flashlight between his shoulder and cheek, and peered into the small opening in the floor.

The plank had been a cover for a safe. Try as he might, there was no way to lift it out. It had been apparently built into the cupboard itself. The top had a series of buttons on it, numbered from zero to nine, and a small toggle lever.

Optimistically, Ryan tried the toggle.

As expected, it didn't budge.

Ryan was glad he'd memorized the numbers. There was no way he would've been able to fish the tiny vial out of his pocket at this uncomfortable angle. 0, 8, 9, 1, 3. He entered the numbers in one at time, each press yielding a click. It was almost anticlimactic. There was no sound of mechanisms releasing, no hiss or clank like he'd seen in the movies.

He tried the toggle again, and this time it turned easily to the right. The lid popped up with a snap. Ryan opened it the rest of the way, and peered as best he could inside.

The space beyond was smaller than expected. Most of the volume was taken up by the thick, and probably fireproof walls of the safe. There was barely enough space for a single wooden box. It was scarcely larger than a pizza box, maybe a bit thicker.

Ryan hauled it out, shutting the safe behind it.

He slithered his head and body out of the cupboard, and took a moment to examine his prize. It was latched on all four sides, and tied shut with twine.

That's it? He thought questioningly. A box!?

Ryan set the box on the counter and returned the contents of the cupboard.

"Did you find anything?" Ian asked, peering around the doorway, his bearing momentarily forgotten.

"Yeah," Ryan replied, latching the cupboard and straightening up. "This." He held up the box. For a moment, Ryan debated opening it, but he had a feeling the contents were not for everyone's eyes. He wrapped it to his chest protectively, as if daring anyone to challenge his possession.

No one did.

Ian stepped aside as Ryan passed by. He moved awkwardly through the kitchen, unsure of what to say. At the door he paused, looking back at Ian and Elise. "Thanks," he said, cradling the box tightly.

Ian didn't move, but Elise gave him a professionally pleasant nod.

Feeling only a little less self-conscious, but still terribly out of place, Ryan darted back through the corridor, up into the main levels of Burns Manor. He didn't stop till he was safely back in his room. There, curled comfortably on his bed, he untied the string and opened the clasps. Inside the box, nestled in protective foam padding, was a flat circular tin.

Ryan opened it, curious. Inside was a thick film reel. He delicately lifted it out and examined it.

The first few frames were dark. It was a wider film than he was expecting. Along the side of the pictures were several grey bars, that looked like images he'd seen of audio frequencies.

Ryan had no idea what he was looking at.

And what was on the film?

Carefully, Ryan placed it gently back into its protective case, and rolled on his back. He stared at the ceiling of his room and thought.

The media room! Burns' in-house movie theatre! When he'd been up in the projection booth loading DVDs into the player, he'd noticed several old film projectors that looked to be still in working condition. How hard could it be to figure them out?

Ryan shoved the tin back into the box, tucked it under his arm, and hurried down to the theatre room.

It didn't take Ryan Smithers long to figure out how to thread the film through one of the cameras. All the dimensions were listed on the film, and the projector had a set of diagrams printed on its side. Ryan dimmed the lights. The projector spun to life.

A series of circles flashed across the screen, then several numbers counting down. The theatre speakers beeped with each number. Audio and video, in one film! Ryan had never even imagined such a thing. He pulled up a metal stool, and leaned over the edge of the balcony.

The scene opened into a familiar setting: the marble fireplace in his father's room, with the polar bear rug, and the two wing chairs. One of the chairs had been moved out of the way, the other pushed to the center of the hearth.

A man sat in the chair, leaning forward. He wore black pants, a black jacket, and a red shirt with a slate grey tie. Ryan clasped his hands over his mouth. Though he'd never seen the man before, the figure was unmistakably familiar. Though his hairline had receded drastically, and his eyes were a scintillating shades of green and light brown, the it was like looking at a photo of Ryan's own father that had been altered to add years. The man was unmistakable. Ryan knew, without question, that he was staring into the hazel eyes of his own grandfather: Waylon Smithers, _Senior_.

"Is that thing on, Johan?" Waylon Sr. asked, fidgeting with his tie tack.

"Yes, Herr Smithers; we are recording." Johan's voice came from somewhere offscreen, softspoken, with a distinct German accent.

"Good, good," the man replied, resting his hands on his lap. Ryan noted the man wore a silver band around the ring finger of each hand. Waylon Sr. crossed his legs and looked directly into the camera. "Well met at last, my friend."


	4. Chapter 4

"I had Johan record this to go along with my will, just in case something happened," the man explained. "Monty, if you're watching, greetings. It's been too long, my dear friend; though I'm afraid this is a rather one-sided meeting. Alas, I cannot look through this screen and gaze into your eyes once again.

"How's young Waylon doing? Is he still a boy, or has he grown into quite the accomplished young man by now. Is he watching this? Does he have children of his own? So many questions I hopefully now know the answers to. Ah… getting to the point.

"Timewise, it's early March. The plant's complete, and operational. We've gone live, we're powering the town.

"I've accomplished so much, and I'm sure if you've read my journals you already know. I even drafted my will in case something happens. Last night I realized even with all my preparations, it wasn't enough. I'll be making some changes in my life. They'll affect my wife and son.

"It's said confession is good for the soul. By God I hope that's true. So I enlisted Johan's help yet again in achieving my aims. Isn't that right, my loyal friend?"

"Absolutely, Herr Smithers."

Waylon Sr. reached down and pulled a worn leather satchel into the frame. "Johan has the copies of my will," he explained, holding a manila envelope up before returning it to his satchel.

"My father gave me that messenger bag when I started at Springfield university. It used to be his. I always knew I wanted to work in the atomic industry. Never imagined I'd be designing my own nuclear plant; but now I couldn't imagine it any other way. I was planning to work as a regulator in the administration. This is better.

"'Twin tycoons of Springfield' the used to call us. Remember, Monty, that article in the paper?" Waylon Sr. blushed at the memory, and rubbed a hand over his mustache. "That was quite the one, wasn't. And that photo! I'm surprised no one questioned it. Remember how vehemently and discretely we tried to track down every single copy and burn them?" Waylon Sr. laughed. "Here's my confession, old friend, I kept a copy. It's tucked away with my paperwork in my room. Please don't hold it against me, but you're quite the subject when you're caught off-guard. I loved that photo. Good memories."

Waylon Sr.'s face clouded over. "And here's where it gets difficult for me. Because it's not just recollections of the past. I have to address the present.

"Roberta, how is she? Lord, Roberta; if you're watching this I know I'll never be able to apologize enough. Everything you suspected of me, every accusation you never voiced but still asked with your eyes... it's true. All of it. And you have every right to hate me for what I've done. Alex... I think he knows too. I see that look in his eyes. He knows, I'm sure of it.

"I did love you, Roberta, still do. It's just... not in the way you deserve. When you get better, we'll talk. Hopefully we've had this talk by now; hopefully, even if you can't forgive me, you understand. I love you: you're the mother of my child, my partner, my best friend... I've failed you. You'll be better off free of me. Know this though, I'd lay down my life for you in a heartbeat. Whatever happens, no matter the distance, that will never change.

"Despite how you hate Monty, your anger is misplaced. Hate me if you must. He supported us as a couple, if that helps lessen the blow somewhat. He never encouraged me to leave you. He was the one who insisted I think of you when I sometimes got wrapped up in my own life. 'Invite her to the groundbreaking' he said. He threatened he'd do it for me if I hesitated. He knew you were my fiancée. He respected you as my wife. In that, he was a better man than I.

"Monty, I know how much I hurt you too. Every time I'd go home for the night, decline an invitation in lieu of my husbandly role to Roberta. I know that killed you inside. I wish I could've spared you that pain, but I had my obligations, and you respected them; even to the dagger in your own heart.

"God, Monty... Roberta…" Waylon Sr. dropped his head in his hand, muffling his words. "All I ever wanted was to be a good father, a good _man!_ And I've wound up hurting the two people I love the most in ways they... neither... deserved. Look what I've done, gone and made such a fool of ourselves.  
Waylon Sr. paused, and ran an handkerchief over his eyes. He looked away from the camera.

"Shall I stop the film," Johan asked.

Waylon Sr. waved a hand. "No, no. Keep it rolling." He took a deep breath. "I'm okay now."

He continued. "That, Roberta, is why, when you're better, we'll have this talk. And I'll let you scream, and yell, even hit me if you must... but once that's done, we must go our separate ways. We'll discuss Waylon. I'm not going to take your son from you; but I'll not have you take him from me either. I deserve to be in his life. Let us not put him in the middle, this was never about him. It's about us... or maybe just me. I ruined this for all of us. I'm the only guilty one."

Waylon Sr. paused, and reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a solid gold pocket watch, the face shaped like that of a lion. He flipped the cover open, and regarded it.

"Good lord, have I spoken for that long? Johan, how much film's left on the reel?"

Johan's disembodied reply: "Barely but a little more, Herr Smithers."

"Ah! I'll need to be quick then." Waylon Sr. returned the watch to his pocket. "Monty, my beloved and cherished friend. You are my partner in more than just business; and I want to keep it that way. I look forward to spending a lifetime of days with you. And equally so many nights, if you'd allow me.

"Waylon, my son, what more can I say? I've spoken to everyone but you it seems. I'm not even sure what to say, my son. Follow your heart, yes; but respect promises you make. A man's honor is only as good as his words. People may forget what you say, they might forget what you do, but they'll always remember how you made them feel. That's true in business, and friendship as well.

"And if, by chance, I'm speaking to someone new... well, now you know the truth about me and the relationship between Springfield's so-called twin tycoons: The Master of the Atom, and the Lion of Fission. I hope you don't use this against my family; _either_ family! This old lion will do more than simply roar when it comes to protecting the members of his pride. I'd lay down my life for any one of them; and that's the truth."

Waylon Sr. straightened his back, and glanced over towards the edge of the screen. He fidgeted with his tie tack again, then clasped his hands together.

"Johan, is that thing still running? I don't know how much time I have lef-"

He never finished his sentence. The film cut out abruptly, spinning onto the receiving wheel.

* * *

Ryan quickly reached up and turned the projector off. He sat in the darkness of the theatre, processing what he'd just seen.

His grandfather: oh the family resemblance was strong. The brow and profile? Ryan shared more with his grandfather than his own dad, it seemed (with a bit of his mother thrown in of course). Ryan set the reel to rewind, and pulled up a chair, stretching his feet out onto the balcony railing.

 _There must be more to life than having nothing_ , he quoted as he folded his arms behind his head. _And there must be more to life than having everything_. Had his grandfather been the one to write in that book, highlight those poems for Burns? There wasn't any other explanation. He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was already five thirty in the afternoon. Where had the day gone? His dad and Burns were probably home by now.

Part of him debated confronting Monty.

"Oh, what a messed up family tale this is," Ryan muttered aloud. "This is some gothic drama right here." He reached into his hoodie pocket to pull out the book of E. E. Cummings' poems… and found it empty. All that he had was the little vial from the vase.

The vase in Burns' private study.

The vase that lay in tiny china shards all over the oriental carpet in Burns' study.

"Oh… shit," Ryan groaned, clasping a hand to his face.

There was only one place the book could be. It must've fallen out during the scuffle with Winston by the mantle.

As if on cue, and confirming his fears, a voice echoed through the manor, rage barely controlled: "Ryan! Smithers! Get in here!"

Ryan didn't bother to wonder if there had been a comma between those two names. When Burns bellowed like that, he meant business. Ryan grabbed the roll of film off the projector and tucked it carefully in its tin case. Case in hand, he half-jogged, half-sprinted down the halls to Burns' study.

When he arrived, skidding to a halt on the wood floor, he found his father already there and locked in a heated debate with Burns.

"I don't care what you think happened," Burns snarled. "Someone has broken into my little sanctum, accosted poor Winston here, and enacted valdalic persuasions against my property! Look!" Burns gestured to the dried daffodils, crushed and trampled into the carpet. "Whoever did this," he snarled, his eyes bulging, "will pay most dearly."

Burns dropped to his knees and attempted to gather the crushed petals in his hands. They only disintegrated further, yellow dust slipping through his fingertips. Burns made a feral sound through clenched teeth.

Ryan watched his father kneel down next to Burns.

"We can get more daffodils, sir. They may be out of season here, but I'll call and have them flown in from some hot-house overnight."

Burns shoved Waylon back. "It's not the daffodils, Smithers. Don't be daft. It's what they represented, their history. No money can rebuy the past." Burns rocked back on his haunches and laid a hand on the groggy doberman. "It's gone. My last link… gone."

Ryan, who had had been hesitating just outside the doorway finally spoke up.

"It's not all gone…"

Burns raised his eyes, expression unreadable. "What would you know? You're a child."

Ryan pointed to a book that had fallen mostly under one of the chairs. "Look in that, Monty."

With the speed of a striking cobra, Burns reached out and snatched the book up. "Oh really, boy? And how exactly did you even know this was here?" He narrowed his eyes, looking at the mayhem around him. " _You_ did this, didn't you."

It wasn't a question.

Ryan squared his shoulders, and entered the room, stepping around his father. "Yes, Monty. I did."

Burns clutched the book without opening it. "Why, Ryan?" His face was drawn, expression simultaneously angry and betrayed.

"It's not my fault. I blame Tennessee Williams," Ryan remarked with a casual confidence he didn't feel. He tiptoed around Burns and sat down in the chair behind the old man. "I was reading _The Glass Menagerie_. And there's a line by e. e. cummings in there. It got me thinking I wanted to read more of his poems-"

("-Hardly poems," sneered Burns)

"So I went down to the Library, and I found this. That book, Monty. The one in your hand started everything. So for the rest of the day I was on this scavenger hunt like Sherlock Holmes. Please," Ryan gestured to the book. "Open it. I think it'll explain some things."

Burns glared at Ryan, but said nothing. He pushed himself up stiffly, and sat down in the chair opposite his stepson. "This better be worth my while."

"I assure you, Monty, it is." Ryan glanced down at his father, who was still crouched on the floor. "Dad," he began, extending a hand. "Please?"

Waylon took it, and let Ryan pull him up. Waylon settled himself on an ottoman, and pursed his lips. He looked on the verge of saying something to Ryan, but for whatever reason, kept his thoughts silent. His expression was that of faint reproach.

Ryan Smithers watched as Charles Montgomery Burns read the inscription at the beginning of the book. He said nothing when Burns moved to the first poem, and began to read, his lips forming soundless words.

Burns finished the first poem, and flipped several pages to the second, which he read aloud.

 _remember seek (forgetting find)_

 _and in a mystery to be_

 _(when time from time set us free)_

 _forgetting me, remember me._

Burns closed the book and set it in his lap. He tapped his thumbnail against his teeth and stared at the empty space on the mantle. "Come what may-" he began. His voice trailed off.

"-We'll always have the daffodils," Ryan finished. "This was the only place I could even think that I'd seen daffodils around here. So, I went to see. I'm sorry about your vase, and the mess, but I found this inside it."

Ryan handed the vial over to Burns.

Burns uncorked it, and read the slip of paper. He raised his eyes to Ryan. "Did you?" He didn't need to finish the question.

Ryan nodded. "I did. I went down and found the safe, and the contents thereof." He glanced at Waylon, to Burns, then back to Waylon again. "I think this is something you really both should see."

Burns snorted. "What is it now? Some other book?"

Ryan shook his head and held out the film tin. "No. He made a movie."

* * *

The three men sat in darkened room, listening to Waylon Sr.'s words, watching his face on the screen.

Ryan stole a glance over at Burns.

The old man had drawn his knuckles to his mouth, resting them against his teeth, gnawing them. Ryan watched as Waylon reached out and took Burns' hand away from his mouth. Waylon drew Burns' hand into his lap, folding it between his own palms. Burns' eyes lowered briefly, a flicker of gratitude towards his husband.

Ryan's attention went back to the screen.

The film reached the its end, the strip flipping onto the receiving spool with a flapping rattle. Burns reached up and quickly stopped the projector. He brought up the lights.

For several minutes, no one spoke.

It was Waylon who eventually broke the silence. "I knew," he began slowly, "that you loved my father. I never realized though, he loved you too."

Burns glanced at Waylon. "Does that bother you?"

Waylon's brow furrowed. "I don't know," he admitted.

Burns gave a cough. "The man was always three steps ahead of me, I fear. I never realized it till now. I can't help but feel a twinge of betrayal, and there is no small matter of astonishment, for I had no idea he'd managed to secure Johan's obedience so completely. You have a dog, Smithers. And you Ryan?"

Waylon nodded.

Ryan shook his head.

Burns made a dismissive gesture with a hand as he sat back down. "Well, imagine you have a hound, one you think completely yours, and utterly loyal to you. Then, one day, as you go to retire for the evening you realize the animal is not on its place at the foot of your bed. You go down the hall, and find the beast curled contentedly up against the side of your friend, or relation; and you realize then the hound has chosen itself a new master… and you realize there is not a damn thing you can do about it."

Burns shook his head. "I should be mad, yes. But quite frankly, I'm impressed. Even all these decades later, old Waylon still manages to surprise me, eh? All this time, I thought I was calling the shots. It appears Waylon had been planning everything behind my back. He always could get the upper hand with me, I fear. Ah, but that is what I get for choosing a companion both Engineer, and Architect."

Burns gave a rueful smile at Waylon Jr. "That's something you, dear man, could learn from."

Waylon gave Burns' hand a patronizing squeeze.

Burns patted Waylon's arm gently, then focused his attention on Ryan.

"Then we have this one here. He takes it upon himself to investigate a personal matter in which he has no business putting his nose into. He ransacks my study, slips some quietive to poor innocent Winston there, and proceeds to act as if this was all perfectly normal for his day's work."

Ryan started to protest, but Burns cut him off.

"I haven't encountered this level of well-played chicanery since dealing with Waylon Sr. himself. You are irreverent, and pert. You caper about this house like you own it, and yet I cannot find a single cell of my being willing to dispute your claim!"

Burns' eyes flashed, almost electric in the dark. "Damn you, Ryan. You are ever too much like your grandfather. For your transgressions, you must be punished, and I can see no better nor fitting way than to reprove you in much the same manner as I would've handled your grandfather himself."

 _Oh really now?_ Ryan thought. He crossed his arms across his chest and looked levelly at Burns.

"The fate of your next years has been decided. You will be going to college, starting post-haste; even if I have to wring some administrative necks to make it happen. I don't care for registrations and semesters. You start this fall. As concession though, I shall give you forty-eight hours to decide what major you will pursue."

 _That's it?_ Ryan asked himself, sitting back. _That's the punishment?_

"Where will I go?"

"A place befitting your accursed intellect and cheeky attitude: Yale. I can think of no finer place for a young man of your caliber."

Ryan ran his hands over his knees. He wasn't sure how he felt. "You're sending me away…"

"Hardly, boy. I'd do far worse to pit you against me."

"So you're not getting rid of me.

"Of course not. What sort of man do you think I am? If that is too great a distance for you, then you can take day courses at Springfield University for all I care. But I'll not have you sitting around the house, your genius quietly degrading from disuse. No. Your punishment shall be using that devilish intellect God or Fates have decided to bestow on you. You will study hard, and you will maintain your grades."

"Or what?"

"Or you will not find me so benevolent towards your contraventions if you fail to uphold your end of the bargain."

Ryan rubbed his palms together. He stared into Burns' eyes unflinchingly. Though Burns' face was pleasant, there was a sharp edge to the gaze. Ryan found himself reluctant to push the issue further.

"So," Burns asked, "do we have a deal?"

Ryan took a deep breath. "Deal," he replied, extending his arm over Waylon.

Burns took it, and the two men shook hands formally.


	5. Chapter 5

Ryan sat, nestled under the covers of the huge bed in his room. The size of the thing always made him feel small, like a child. A Yale course book rested on the pillow next to his head.

His father, Waylon, sat on the bed beside him; Waylon's hand resting on Ryan's knee.

"Have you decided what you want to major in?" Waylon asked.

Ryan shook his head. "I'm really not sure," he confessed. "It all looks pretty interesting, actually."

Waylon patted Ryan's leg affectionately. "Well, what jumps out at you?"

Ryan opened the course catalogue to a dog-eared page. "Well, there's this…" he began, pointing to the page.

"Mathematics and Physics," Waylon read. His eyes skimmed over the description. " 'Mathematics has many aspects: it is the language and tool of the sciences, a cultural phenomenon with a rich historical tradition, and a model of abstract reasoning… Physics forms the foundation for all other sciences… The major in Mathematics and Physics allows the student to explore the productive interaction between the two subjects more extensively than either individual major.'"

Waylon passed the book back to Ryan. "Well, that sounds rather intensive, to say the least."

Ryan nodded. "Yeah. There's also this one," he added, turning to another marked page. "I like the sounds of it."

"Physics and Philosophy?"

Ryan nodded, hazel eyes eager. "That's the one! And I was thinking Dad, if I play it right, I can take the required courses for one, and use them in the elective slots of the other."

"Playing the system." Waylon chuckled.

"Sure! Why not?"

"That'd be a lot of work on that brain of yours."

Ryan gave him a smug grin. "I think I can handle it."

"Why do you even want to go into these fields? I would've thought literature or straight philosophy would've been more your thing."

Ryan shrugged. "Honestly, I don't know. These just kind of spoke to me, I guess."

"What if it's too much?"

"It won't be. And, if it is, I can always cut down to one major, right?"

Waylon ruffled Ryan's black hair affectionately. "As long as you keep your grades up, and work hard, I'm not worried. I have every confidence in you… _boy_ ," he remarked, adding the last word lovingly. He leaned over and gave Ryan a quick kiss on the forehead.

Ryan smiled, a bit embarrassed. "Awww, Dad," he protested. "I'm too old for goodnight kisses."

Waylon stood up, smoothing the covers where he'd sat. "Then why do I always hear about it the next morning if I forget? Goodnight, Ryan. Sleep well."

Ryan rolled over, pulling the comforter about his neck. "Goodnight, Dad," he replied, trying to keep the happiness from showing too much in his voice. It felt good to have a family.

* * *

Despite being tired, the day's activities still weighed on Ryan's mind. He felt utterly exhausted, yet unable to sleep. After over an hour of tossing and turning, he gave up. Ryan left his room, and paced the dark corridors of Burns Manor, his bare feet making no sound against the smooth floors. A flight of stairs up, passed the landing, down the hall…

Ahead, he saw a flicker of light, an oil lamp held aloft by a slender hand.

Ryan padded noiselessly over, staying just out of the light. He followed Montgomery Burns down another path, lined with statues and paintings. He'd been here once before, though the place had made the hair on the back of his neck rise. He hadn't been back since. Waylon referred to the place as the Hall of Patriots, a gallery of Burns' ancestors and their accomplishments.

Burns paused before a section of wall, covered with a curtain of deep forest green.

Ryan slipped closer, crouching behind a statue.

Burns turned, looking in Ryan's direction, and lowered the flame of the lamp. "I know you're there, boy," he said into the darkness. "Come out, and come here."

Ryan sighed and slouched out of his hiding place.

"Straighten your spine."

"Fine, fine," Ryan mumbled, drawing his shoulders back, raising his head.

"How did you know I was there?"

Burns gave a calculated blink. "I can see in the dark."

"So why'd you bring the light?" Ryan asked.

"Because I didn't know if you could see," Burns replied.

"Oh."

Burns held the lamp up, pulling the curtains aside.

The now recognizable face of Waylon Sr. looked down on them regally from his place on the wall. Larger than life, yet captured with the finest brushstrokes down to the tiniest detail. "No one moves these curtains but me," Burns explained. "But I keep his portrait here as a reminder." Burns set the oil lamp on the floor and took a step back. "Sometimes, when I need to someone to share my thoughts with, I come up here, and talk to him. I don't know if he hears me…"

Burns sat down on the floor, drawing his thin legs up and wrapping his arms around them.

Ryan sat down next to him, staring up at the painting.

"Why do you keep him covered?"

Burns shrugged. "Multiple reasons, I suppose, Ryan. Your grandfather, he gave his life for me, for his son, for his wife and the entire town. Without him, Springfield would've never been on the map… and without his sacrifice it would've been as quickly wiped off."

"What happened?"

"There was an accident at the plant," Burns replied softly.

Ryan rested his head on his wrists. "Reactor Two…"

Burns shot Ryan a stern look. "How did you know that?"

Ryan shook his head, and offered a shrug. "I don't know. It just seems right, somehow. Like that's how it happened, you know?"

Burns turned his attention back to the painting. "Well, I know because I was there. But if I hadn't been, then I wouldn't. You've got a keen mind to you, boy."

"My mother always said that."

"Did she now." It wasn't a question.

Ryan nodded.

They sat in silence for a moment, the only light coming from the flickering oil lamp. "I keep him hidden because the past isn't always something I want to be reminded of. But that's not the only reason. The other is your father."

"What do you mean?" Ryan asked, raising his head.

Burns shrugged. "No one wants to feel that they are being compared to another, judged against the ghost of someone they cannot compete against. What good would it do my dear Waylon to think he could never measure up to his father in my eyes?"

"So you keep the curtains pulled…" Ryan began.

"… To preserve the past, and maintain the future; yes, yes." Burns answered. "Your father is not _his_ father, and that is hardly a bad thing. There are similarities, to be sure, but it's the differences that I appreciate as well. He's got much of his mother in him. I'm sure I couldn't have loved your father half as much if he were the spiriting image of Waylon Sr. there." Burns reached out, and put a hand on Ryan's shoulder. "I love your father for who he is, not who he came from. If I loved him merely for his bloodline, well, that would be selfish and possessive all in one, and despite what one might believe there is more to my nature than that."

Ryan felt Burns' cold, thin fingers through the fabric of his teeshirt. He didn't pull away.

"You, Ryan? You have perhaps more in common with your grandfather than you do your own father. That's both a blessing and a curse to me. When I first saw your eyes as you sat beside Larry… well…" he gestured to the painting. "I hated it, and I resented you."

Burns gave Ryan's shoulder a squeeze. "Even now, it is unsettling to me. That look on your face, so patient, and understanding. It's a look I've seen before, but never thought I'd see again."

Ryan licked his lips. "So, what does all this mean?"

"Have you not been listening?"

Ryan shook his head. "I have. No. I mean, for you and Dad; and I guess me too. What's this all mean?"

Burns withdrew his hand and reached for the oil lamp. He took it and stood up, looking down at Ryan. "It means that I have a chance to see the continuation of a truly remarkable bloodline. It's a gift and an honor. I'm glad to see your grandfather's blood runs strong in your veins. You're a worthy son for your father. I hope he knows how proud he should be."

Ryan pushed himself up. He watched as Burns began to pull the curtains shut. Ryan reached out a hand, and laid his fingers across Burns' arm. "Maybe you should leave them open," he suggested.

Burns regarded Ryan levelly. "Pray tell, why?"

"It just seems better that way." Ryan turned and started to make his way off into the shadows.

"Wait," he heard Burns' voice from behind him. "Where are you going?"

"To bed, I suppose," Ryan replied.

"In the dark?"

Ryan turned, and afforded Burns a slight smirk. "You're not the only one who can see in the dark, Monty. I can find my way back safely enough. Goodnight, _old man_. Don't wake my father when you go to bed." He gave Burns a jaunty half-salute, and capered off into the shadows, leaving Montgomery Burns behind.

 _Yale_ , he thought as he stolled down the hall, hands clasped behind his back, thinking of his grandfather's portrait. Yes, that would be a good choice. And a double major in hard science? Well, he could probably handle that too. _Who knows_ , he thought as he returned to his room and slid into bed. _Perhaps someday I'll run a nuclear plant too_. With that, and feeling much at peace with the world, Ryan snuggled in and fell asleep.


	6. Author's Notes

**Author's Notes**

 _This was a gift-fic, requested once again by the delightful Gav-Imp of DeviantArt: a request for a story that linked the lives of Ryan Smithers to his grandfather, Waylon Sr. It gave me a wonderful challenge, and I enjoyed the process of figuring out how to accomplish that without resorting to shark-jumping tropes like supernatural awareness, ghosts, or other unrealistic acts._

 _It also provided me the challenge of linking the past to the present without reusing devices that I've already handled before._

 _Waylon Sr.'s journal? His son found it, and made mention of it in "oh lucifer, what have you done." So, obviously, I couldn't reuse that device._

 _Love letters? Well, they're boring to write, and can be even more boring to read. I've done the story-within-a-story thing recently in "Revelations of Men." And, let's be perfectly honest here, men rarely write love-letters to one another. It's just not done. It seems completely out of character to have two men blabbing away sappily at each other via post. I can't see either man expressing himself like that. Heck, I can't see most men expressing themselves that way. So... letter? Out._

 _That meant I had to take the Reader in a new direction, to a place they'd never been before..._

 _... pull the rug out from under a few feet._

 _I feel I succeeded in that!_

 _This story runs very close to my first piece, "Nuclear Attraction," both in tone and theme. It has layers, and seems like a simple tale at the forefront. Long-time Readers of my tales will see though, that elements from a great aspects were drawn together. I like to tie arcs together, looping these tales back in on themselves; drawing in elements of the outside world, then weaving it all together to create a greater picture._

 _This story arcs back through the pieces I informally think of as "the saga of Ryan Smithers," and sews them together with the core fabric in the rest of my "Nuclear World."_

 _I personally think this is one of my more complex pieces, albeit in a subtle way._

 _I enjoyed writing it._

 _Thanks for reading, and thankyou to Gav-Imp for once again letting me bring Ryan Smithers into my world!_

~ Muse


End file.
